Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Guess you’ve heard nothing from Nathan and Lydia?” he asked.

  Benjamin shook his head. “It’s only been three days since they left. Don’t expect we’ll hear much for another two weeks or so.”

  “Hope all goes well with the baby.”

  Benjamin looked at him sharply. Martin knew his feelings about his son and daughter-in-law packing up and leaving with her almost ready to deliver. Was he rubbing it in a little, the fact that this new faith of theirs—and Martin’s—took priority over family? But Martin was chewing on the stub of a weed, looking out across the fields of their two farms, his eyes far away. Benjamin decided the comment had been one of sincere concern. He relaxed a little. “Thank you. Do you still plan to leave at the end of the month?”

  His friend and neighbor finally looked around, coming back to Benjamin. “Yes. As I mentioned to you before, Joseph wrote to me a while back and asked me to close things out here. I’ll be taking the rest of the copies of the Book of Mormon, and it looks like we’ll have about forty or so people.”

  Benjamin felt a little flash of irritation. “I still don’t understand why Nathan and Lydia couldn’t have just waited and gone with you.”

  There was a long look of appraisal, then Martin finally nodded. “I’d have been happy to have them with me.” He smiled, but it was a sad, almost melancholy, expression. “But then, I’ve learned that some folk have their own mind.”

  Benjamin looked away, knowing what was meant, embarrassed by the pain on Martin’s face. Martin and Lucy Harris had recently separated and were no longer living in the same house. From what little Benjamin could gather, the marriage had never been a wonderful one, but when Martin went off chasing after Joseph Smith, and especially when he mortgaged his farm to finance the publication of the Book of Mormon, it had been like throwing boulders in the bottom of an already sinking boat. Lucy Harris would definitely not be going to Ohio with her husband. And while Martin was turning his back on a lot in Palmyra, in some ways it was probably a relief to him as well.

  “We’ve come a long ways, Ben,” Martin finally said.

  Benjamin nodded. “You more than me.”

  “Not really. You’ve made for yourself a fine place here.”

  “I know, but you and your pa, you came when this was frontier.”

  There was a soft sigh, tinged with an air of regret. “Yes, and now, it’s just not the same.”

  Benjamin murmured an assent, watching his friend closely. Just last month Martin had sold a goodly portion of his land at public auction—about a hundred and fifty acres—and paid off the three-thousand-dollar mortgage he had contracted to pay for the printing of the Book of Mormon. All that land. Gone now. And for what? Benjamin thought. To pay a debt that wasn’t really his. Benjamin shook his head. No wonder Martin was in a reflective mood.

  Martin was watching him closely, seeming to read his thoughts. “You ever think of leavin’, Ben?”

  “What?” The question had caught him from the blind side.

  “You ever think about selling out and movin’ on?”

  “Of course not. Why should I? I got a good piece of land here. The price of wheat is good. It’ll be another successful season.”

  Martin took the stub of weed out of his mouth, flipped it away, and turned to face Benjamin directly. “Exactly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Martin laid a hand on his shoulder. “You and me, Ben, we need more than success. We need to be succeeding.”

  One eyebrow came up, and Martin laughed. “Sounds like I’m talking fool’s talk, don’t it?” He laughed again as Benjamin’s eyes answered his question. Then he slowly sobered. “Think back to when you first came, Ben. You and your boys clearing land, building that little cabin, digging a well, putting in fence. It was hard work. A lot of hard work.”

  “Well, that we can agree on,” Benjamin said fervently.

  “Now, look at you. You’ve got one of the finest farms in the township. You’ve tripled the size of your house. You hire your help now. You’ve even put some cash in the bank, I hear.”

  “So? A man’s got a right to the fruits of his labor.”

  “Of course, of course,” Martin said, “but that’s not my point, Ben. Think of it. Are you happier now than you were then, at the first?”

  Benjamin turned and looked at him. “I...” He stopped, the question really hitting him. In the summer of ‘26 he had up and pulled stakes, leaving a beautiful farm in Vermont. Before that it had been a farm in Connecticut. The longest he and Mary Ann had stayed in any one place was five and a half years. They had now been here almost five years.

  Martin was right. There really was something exhilarating about the contest between man and wilderness. He had left Vermont because he had beat it—the harsh winters, the rockstrewn countryside, the challenge of conquering the land. And now, in an instant, he realized that he was starting to feel those first feelings of restlessness again. He had pushed them aside, and they weren’t compelling. Not yet. But Martin was right.

  Searching his face, Martin suddenly smiled triumphantly. “That’s what I mean. And that’s exactly where I am, Ben. The exciting things have been done. We’re a success, you and me. So why aren’t we happier?”

  “I’m not unhappy,” Benjamin retorted, a little defensively now.

  “No, of course not. Neither am I. Not in that sense. But it’s not the same, is it?”

  Their eyes met and locked, but Benjamin didn’t answer.

  “Is it?” Martin said, gripping his arm.

  Benjamin finally let his eyes drop. “No, not really.”

  “That’s what I mean. Success isn’t enough for us. What we need is the succeeding. We need to be doing things, and when they’re done, we need to move on and start again.”

  “You’re leaving because Joseph Smith left,” Benjamin said bluntly.

  “Yes,” Martin acknowledged honestly. “Yes, I am. But I was ready, Ben. I’m looking forward to starting again, seeing what I can do.” He changed the subject with sudden swiftness. “Have you had any luck in selling Nathan’s farm yet?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.” He looked away, this time to the south, across Benjamin’s fields to the line of trees that marked the creek that served as property line between their farms.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m leaving for Newark this afternoon.”

  Benjamin turned, realizing that this was what Martin Harris had really come to say.

  “I’m meeting with the man who purchased my land. He has others with him. Developers from the East. Boston, Springfield, Providence.”

  Benjamin still waited, letting Martin take it at his own pace now.

  “He says they’re looking for prime farmland. Big parcels. Thirty or forty acres at a cut. They’re looking to hire men to run them for them.”

  Gradually it dawned on Benjamin what Martin was saying. “You mean—”

  “Yes.” His voice rose in excitement. “Suppose I told them about both yours and Nathan’s farms being for sale. They say they’re paying good money.”

  Benjamin was stunned. Sell the farm? Just when it was paying off in rich dividends? What would Mary Ann say? What would the children think? Then it hit him, as though someone had jabbed him with an ox goad. He wasn’t asking questions about how he felt about doing it. “Where would I go?” he asked slowly, his eyes narrowing with quick suspicion.

  Martin threw back his head and laughed. When he straightened, his eyes were full of amusement. “Ben, Ben,” he said, still chuckling, “you can go anywhere you want. There’s a big country out there.”

  “But you’re going to Ohio?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Mary Ann and Melissa, they’ve got their hearts set on Kirtland too.”

  “I’ve heard the reports, Ben. There’s worse places than Ohio for a man who’s looking for a new start. Besides which, there’s a lot to be said for a man being close to hi
s grandchildren.”

  Surprisingly, Benjamin was not angry. He laughed now too, ruefully. “You and Mary Ann. You never give up, do you?”

  “Not on a good man like you.”

  Benjamin shook his head, sobering. “Leave the farm?” he mused, now half speaking to himself. “For Ohio?”

  “It’s not Ohio that’s troubling you,” Martin said with quick shrewdness. “It’s the idea of following after Joseph.”

  Benjamin didn’t answer. He and Martin had been over this ground many times before.

  “Let me ask you two questions, Ben.”

  Benjamin nodded.

  “That first spring you were here, you hired Joseph and Hyrum as day labor. Since then, you’ve hired a lot of other men to help you with this or that. Have you ever had better workers, more honest help, than the Smith boys?”

  That was easy. Benjamin still felt shame when he thought of his decision to fire Joseph and Hyrum because the townspeople were wagging their tongues about Benjamin Steed hiring Joseph Smith. He shook his head firmly. “No.”

  “All right. Second question. Since your family decided to follow Joseph and join the Church, aren’t they the better for it?”

  The silence stretched on for several moments.

  “Come on, now, Ben. You’re an honest man. Be honest with yourself for a moment.”

  Benjamin began to kick the dirt, fighting his personal feelings about Joseph, making himself consider Martin’s question honestly. It had been about a year now since they had been baptized.

  “Well?”

  Benjamin slowly nodded. “I’ve got to admit that things have not turned out to be as bad as I feared.”

  Martin laughed. “You stubborn old fool. I didn’t ask you that. I asked you if things were better since they joined the Church.”

  Ben tried to take offense at his friend’s directness, but they knew each other too well for that. Besides, Martin had him. “Yes, I guess I’ve got to admit that things have been better.”

  “How?”

  That was a harder question, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Well, Mary Ann and me, we’ve always had a good marriage, but...I don’t know. She seems so much happier now, so much more willing to try and please me. It’s just been better.”

  “What about the kids?”

  He sighed, giving up in total surrender now. “All right, all right. At first I thought all this scripture reading and having family prayer every night and going to Sabbath services was pushing too much religion on them.”

  “But?” Martin prodded.

  “But,” he finally admitted, “they have been better. There’s less fightin’ now, and they seem more willing to help without complaining about it.”

  “So,” Martin said triumphantly, “there you go. Look, Ben, no one’s going to force you to be baptized if you move to Kirtland. But if Joseph Smith and the Church of Christ have blessed your family, why are you so dead set against them?” Before Benjamin could answer, Martin went very serious. “You think about selling your farm, Ben. You think about making a new start somewhere. And if you decide to do it, maybe Kirtland is as good a place as any.”

  Well over a thousand miles to the west of where Martin and Benjamin stood talking, Jessica Steed was walking down the streets of Independence. She slowed her step as she saw the three ladies coming down the board sidewalk toward her. Immediately she stopped to look in the window of the small dress shop she was passing. She didn’t want to have to face them—with their curious looks; with their whispered asides; with their eyes that stared, then darted away the moment Jessica looked in their direction. The display in the shop was meager and provided little to keep her attention so captured, but she didn’t care. Let them think what they wanted.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Steed.” It came almost as a chorus.

  She turned slightly, managing to look a little surprised. “Good morning.”

  “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” They moved on, and in the reflection of the window she saw them looking back at her over their shoulders.

  “Do you think she’s expecting again?”

  Jessie couldn’t tell for sure which one had whispered it, but she was pretty sure it had been done deliberately so she would hear.

  “So soon?” came the hushed answer.

  A third voice chimed in, and this time the dripping sympathy made Jessie want to gag. “She does look very pale.”

  Jessica turned and hurried on, away, not wanting to hear any more.

  Expecting again? So soon? She laughed bitterly to herself. From whom, pray tell? After their bitter confrontation over Doc Hathaway, the tension had become a palpable thing between her and Joshua, exploding into open confrontation at the slightest provocation. For a time, Joshua had taken to sleeping at the freight office. When he finally came back home, they both settled for an unspoken truce. That had lasted for about a week. Then he had come home from his visit with the missionaries from New York.

  At first, she tried to keep her questions casual, as if it were of no more than passing interest to her. She asked about his family. Did the men know them? How were they doing? What had he learned? But Joshua had come home cold and sullen. He was in no mood to talk, and if he answered at all, it was with little more than noncommittal grunts or murmurs.

  Angered, she began to push. He warned her off with his eyes, but now she sensed that Lydia was behind this. Something had been said about Lydia, something that had hurt him. And that in turn hurt her so deeply that she lashed out at him, demanding to know. He swore at her, cursed her jealousy. And finally, after she had goaded him into a fury, he told her. If he had waited, he could have married Lydia.

  That was the last time she had let him into her bed. He was still coming home at nights, but usually late, often drunk, and he slept on a cot in the second bedroom.

  Ten days ago he had come home long enough to gather his things before he left with a mumbled good-bye to take a load of freight to Fort Leavenworth and St. Joseph. Expecting? Hardly.

  Jessica had had a life of loneliness—all those years waiting on men in her father’s saloon—but she had never known hurt like this. Not even her beloved reading had dulled it. Two days after Joshua left with the wagon train she went back to her father and volunteered to help behind the bar. Shocked, frightened of what Joshua would say when he returned, Clinton Roundy had finally agreed only because his daughter adamantly refused to take no for an answer. To his great relief it took Jessica Steed, housewife, less than half a day to realize that Jessica Roundy, barmaid, had died long since.

  She shook her head, angry that she kept letting these emotions churn inside her to the point where she could think of nothing else. Too bad she couldn’t follow Joshua’s example and find her solace in the bottom of some whiskey bottle or a jug of rum. Or maybe poker. That seemed to bring out the same glassyeyed stupor in most of the men she had known.

  Jessica stopped, suddenly realizing what she was doing. She felt a wave of revulsion. Which was the stronger liquor—whiskey, or self-pity? Was this what she had come to? An embittered, mean-spirited woman who sought and imbibed personal hurts like a derelict wino begging for a drink at every bar and saloon he passed? One hand came up and she touched her face. It was burning. With fever? No, with shame.

  She shook her head, shocked that she had not seen it sooner. No wonder she slept alone. No wonder Joshua avoided her eyes anymore and would rather sit at a table until his vision blurred. What was there to see at home?

  Angry, sick at heart, Jessica turned and started back the way she had come. She had been on her way to take a walk down to the river. It was a long walk, several miles. She had chosen it particularly so it would fill the day. Now, determined to throw off this creature she had made of herself, she started for home. She wanted to take a long look at herself in the mirror.

  Chapter Eleven

  Captain Patrick McIntosh chewed steadily on the stump of his unlit cigar even though it was starting to come apart in hi
s mouth. The light from a half-moon was enough to show the flecks of tobacco on his lower lip or at the corners of his mouth. Nathan watched him and reflected. Many of the company of Mormons felt uncomfortable around this hard-muscled canawler who smoked tobacco strong enough to fumigate a barn and sang bawdy songs to himself. But Nathan had come up on deck that first night after Lydia had fallen asleep. He wasn’t tired and couldn’t bear to spend any more time than was absolutely required in the cramped berth. The captain had been up top, smoking his cigar. On impulse, Nathan sauntered over and began to visit with him. It had turned out to be such an enjoyable experience, that it had now become their nightly ritual.

  The air was cold, and their breath left little puffs of silver in the moonlight. It would take two or three weeks of good warm weather to bring out the hordes of insects that were common to these parts. Off to the left, about a quarter of a mile away, a lamp-lit window glowed warmly in the darkness. It was the only light to be seen in any direction. Below them a young child began to fuss. There was the creak of someone walking on the wooden deck, then the sound of a mother soothing the child.

  The captain began to hum softly, a tune Nathan had not heard before. His voice was deep and had a remarkably good timbre to it. Then he began to sing softly, as though he were alone and singing to himself.

  Buffalo gals, won’t ya come out tonight, Come out tonight, come out tonight? Buffalo gals, won’t ya come out tonight, And dance by the light of the moon?

  He sang it again, then lapsed back into humming it. Finally, Nathan spoke. “Buffalo gals?”

  The man stopped and took the cigar from his lips, spitting out a piece of tobacco that had stayed on his tongue. “Yeah, Buffalo gals.” He shook his head, his eyes closing. “Now, there’s a place for you.”

  “Buffalo?”

  “No, Goose Island. Just this side of Buffalo. It’s where all the canawlers stop. The song suggests that the gals from Buffalo come out and join them.”

  “And do they?” Nathan asked, guessing the answer already.